


You Shook Me

by swilmarillion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12110976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion
Summary: 'As the pitch came down, Mairon began to sing, and Melkor knew at once that they had found their singer.  Mairon’s voice was powerful, captivating, fluctuating with fluid ease between the highs and lows of the verse.  Melkor looked over at Thuringwethil, who was grinning, and back at Gothmog, who gave him a thumbs up.  Melkor watched Mairon as he sang, his hands clasped tight around the microphone, head and hips moving in time to the beat of the drums.  He was transfixing, masterful, and Melkor had the unmistakable feeling that this, at last, was someone special.'





	You Shook Me

**Author's Note:**

> A couple things I wasn't sure how to tag for: Aule is Mairon's dad, and he's a dick (there are conversations about abusive behavior and also a physical altercation between the two of them). Uh, yeah. It's angbang. They do it. It's nsfw but not super explicit. Do I need to mention there's swearing? Probably not, since it's me. Drinking and smoking, if that bothers you.
> 
> Apparently I am only capable of writing a Melkor who is entirely impervious to even the most obvious of hints whoops

       “This blows,” Gothmog said, flipping a drumstick end over end and catching it. 

       “Tell me about it,” said Melkor, picking idly at the strings of the guitar on his lap.

       “Suck it up,” Thuringwethil said, replacing the E string on her bass.  “We’re almost done.”

       “Yeah,” said Gothmog, “if this last idiot ever shows up.”

       “He’s already out,” Melkor said.  “I don’t have time for some asshole to decide when he feels like showing up.”

       “Agreed,” said Gothmog.

       “Then we’re shit out of luck,” Thuringwethil said, expertly turning the tuning peg to the right pitch.  “We have a show in a week and we’re down a singer.”

       “And a manager,” Gothmog said.

       “Fuck,” she said.  “I forgot.”

       “We’re really batting a thousand this week,” Melkor said sourly. 

       “Stop with the sports metaphors,” she said.

       “Stop with the sports metaphors,” Melkor said, his voice a high-pitched, childish imitation of hers.  She threw the broken string she had just replaced at him, and he threw a pick at her.  She stood up, bass in hand, and stalked toward him.  Melkor stood up so fast he knocked over his chair, yelling out a surrender that went completely ignored. 

       “Guys,” Gothmog said, as Melkor ran around the back of the drum set.  “Guys!”

       Melkor and Thuringwethil stopped their chase and looked in the direction he was pointing.  Someone was standing just inside the door, looking up at them on the stage with a mixture of concern and amusement.  He was young, early twenties or so, and he was, Melkor decided immediately, prettier than anyone had a right to be.  Long red-gold hair fell loose about his shoulders, and the face turned up at them was striking, all sharp-cut angles under translucent, freckled skin.  Bright blue-grey eyes took in the three of them each in turn, and he smiled, running a hand through the waves of his hair to push it back from his face.

       “Holy shit,” Melkor said, before he could stop himself.  Thuringwethil shot him a look.

       “Closed session, dude,” said Gothmog.

       “I heard you were auditioning singers,” said the newcomer. 

       “You the twat who was supposed to be here at noon?” Thuringwethil asked.

       “Nah,” he said.  “I didn’t schedule anything.  Kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

       “What’s your name, kid?” Gothmog asked.

       “Mairon,” he said, rolling up on the balls of his feet and bouncing, looking a little nervous.  “Am I too late to try out?”

       “You any good?” Melkor asked, recovering at last.

       Mairon grinned.  “One way to find out,” he said, cocky and charming.

       “Need some backup?” Gothmog asked, flipping his drumstick again.

       “If you don’t mind,” Mairon said.

       “What do you want to sing?”

       “Anything,” Mairon said.  “I know all your songs.”  He looked sheepish, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing pink.  “I’m a huge fan, by the way.”

       “Awesome,” Gothmog said, grinning at him.  He looked at Thuringwethil and Melkor.  “What do you think?”

       Melkor shrugged.  “ _Kill the Trees_?” Thuringwethil suggested.

       “Sounds good to me,” Melkor said. 

       “Come on up,” Thuringwethil said, dragging the mic stand into place. 

       Mairon walked around the side of the stage and up the stairs, coming to a halt in front of the mic.  Gothmog clicked his sticks, counting them in.  Mairon looked over his shoulder, caught Melkor’s eye, and smiled.  Melkor nearly missed his cue on the opening riff, fumbling the pick in his fingers.  He recovered quickly, launching into the familiar beat, his foot working the distortion peddle.  Thuringwethil came in with the raucous, fast-moving bassline, and the song swelled to a head before quieting, awaiting the vocals.

       As the pitch came down, Mairon began to sing, and Melkor knew at once that they had found their singer.  Mairon’s voice was powerful, captivating, fluctuating with fluid ease between the highs and lows of the verse.  Melkor looked over at Thuringwethil, who was grinning, and back at Gothmog, who gave him a thumbs up.  Melkor watched Mairon as he sang, his hands clasped tight around the microphone, head and hips moving in time to the beat of the drums.  He was transfixing, masterful, and Melkor had the unmistakable feeling that this, at last, was someone special.

       The song ended, the notes of the guitar wavering out to silence, and for a moment, none of them moved.  Then Gothmog started to clap, and Thuringwethil joined in.  Mairon turned around, his face flushed, and smiled.  Melkor felt an unfamiliar flutter in his chest, and he gripped the neck of his guitar, unable to identify it. 

       “How’d I do?” Mairon asked.

       “You kidding?” Gothmog asked.  “Dude, we’ve been through three singers since we got together, and you’re the best by far.”

       “Yeah?”

       “No question,” Thuringwethil said.  “How long you been doin’ this?”

       “I’ve never really sung in public before.”

       “Holy shit,” Gothmog said.  “How’d you get that good?”

       Mairon shrugged.

       “You’re hired,” Melkor said.  “Can you start right now?  We’ve got a show in a week.”

       “I’m all yours,” Mairon said, and Melkor shivered in the face of his grin.

*****

       The stage was set, and the band waited backstage, counting down the final minutes to the start of the show.  Mairon stood near the doorway, looking out to the edge of the crowd.  The place was half-full.  He could hear Gothmog complaining about the low turnout, but he didn’t mind.  He was too excited.  Angband had come on the local scene three years earlier, and Mairon had loved them from the first song he’d ever heard.  He had stood in those crowds, listened to the roar of Melkor’s guitar, the dual thunder of Gothmog’s drums and Thuringwethil’s bass, and he had sung until he was hoarse, loving every minute of every show.  To be backstage with his favorite band, not as a fan but as a member, was almost too much to handle.

       “Nervous?” Melkor asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

       Mairon looked over his shoulder at him, smiling.  “No,” he said, and he meant it.

       “Good,” Melkor said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.  The announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker, calling out for the crowd to welcome the band to the stage.  “Thery’re gonna love you,” Melkor said, and he brushed past Mairon, raising his guitar in the air as the crowd began to cheer.

       He was right.  They played two encores, the crowd screaming their approval long after the band had stepped out for good.  “What’d I tell ya?” Melkor said when they had gathered backstage.  He was beaming, his guitar slung across his back.  “They love you.”

       Angband played twelve shows in three weeks, and word of the new singer seemed to spread like wildfire.  The last show of the run was sold out, and fans crowded the rear doors of the theater, jostling each other for a chance to see them.  Later, when everything was packed into the van and they were headed home, Gothmog held the money they had made in his hands, cackling wildly.  “You’re our lucky charm, kid,” he said, looking over his shoulder from his place in the passenger seat at Mairon, who was behind him.  “Thank God we found you.”

       “Technically,” Thuringwethil said, “he found us.”  She threw an arm around his shoulders.  “And thank God for that.”

       They had nothing scheduled in the immediate future, and so they took a few days off.  Melkor, Thuringwethil, and Gothmog shared a house downtown, and they spent a few days doing little besides enjoying the rare stretch of freedom.  Melkor spent most of it in his room, writing new songs.  Their recent run of success had inspired him, and he wrote until his hand hurt and he could barely hold a pen.  Then he played until his fingers bruised and bled, teasing new riffs out of the strings.  He worked for four days, staying up late into the night and sleeping well into the afternoon.  Thuringwethil and Gothmog left him to it, keeping each other company while he worked. 

       They didn’t see or hear from Mairon during the break.  “Should we be worried, do you think?” Thuringwethil asked, scrolling up through the chain of unanswered texts she had sent him. 

       “Nah,” Gothmog said.  “Remember how wiped we were after our first run of shows?  He’s probably sleeping it off.”

       On the fifth day, they had rehearsal.  Someone had to go in and set up the rehearsal space, and Melkor drew the short stick.  Neither begging nor bribing could convince either Gothmog or Thuringwethil to take his turn, and so grudging, reluctantly, he rose early the next day, leaving a threatening note demanding breakfast and coffee before getting in the car and driving over to the studio.

       It was deserted when he arrived, and he went through the place in a sluggish haze, turning on lights and setting up equipment.  When he was finished, he flopped down in a chair, pulling the scribbled new songs from his back pocket and skimming through them, making notes.  He heard voices in the hall and glanced at his watch.  It was still a little early; he hadn’t expected Gothmog and Thuringwethil just yet.  Still, they had a lot of new material to rehearse, and an early start wouldn’t be a bad thing.  He went back to work, waiting to hear the click of the door behind him, but it didn’t come. 

       The voices got louder, and then a voice Melkor didn’t recognize started to shout.  He pushed himself up out of the chair, shoving his notes back into his pocket, and pushed through the door into the hall.  A man he didn’t know was standing a few feet away, dressed in a shirt and tie that were well-tailored and incongruous with the rundown, peeling wallpaper of the studio.  He was a big man, easily as tall as Melkor, and broader in the chest.  He was still shouting, and as Melkor came out, he saw it was Mairon who being shouted at.  The big man had Mairon by the front of the shirt, lifting him up onto the balls of his feet and screaming in his face.

       Melkor crossed the hall and shoved the big man away, putting a hand on Mairon’s arm to steady him.  The stranger was surprisingly agile for his size, catching himself and turning back to Melkor, raising his hand as though to strike.  “Stop it!” Mairon shouted, putting himself between them and holding out a hand toward each of them.  Melkor pulled up short, noting that the stranger pushed himself up against Mairon’s outstretched hand, pushing Mairon back a step. 

       “You know this punk?” the man asked, the intended disdain of his glance at Melkor marred slightly by the labor of his breathing.

       “This is Melkor,” Mairon said, nodding over his shoulder at him.  “He’s the guitarist in the band.”

       “Right,” said the man, his tone dismissive.  “The band.”  He rolled his eyes.

       “You know this asshole?” Melkor asked matching the contempt of the other man’s tone. 

       “Watch it, kid,” he said, flexing his fingers.  “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

       “Would you stop it?” Mairon snapped, glaring at him.  “Melkor, this is Aulë,” said Mairon.  “My dad.”

       Melkor snorted.  “Seriously?  God, that sucks for you.”

       “I said watch it,” Aulë snarled, lunging forward again.

       Mairon turned his back on Melkor and put both hands against his father’s chest, his shoes sliding on the floor as Aulë pushed him back.  Aulë grabbed Mairon by the arm and wrenched him to the side hard enough to send him crashing into the wall.  Mairon gave a cry of pain, and Melkor lunged forward, grabbing Aulë by his expensive lapels and slamming him into the wall.  “Touch him again,” Melkor snarled, “and I’ll break your arm.”

       “Touch me again,” Aulë snapped, “and you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

       “Let him go,” Mairon said, wincing as he straightened.  He rubbed his shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the impact with the wall.  Melkor hesitated, looking over at Mairon.  He looked tired, drained, and Melkor relented, releasing Aulë with a sneer. 

       “You okay?” Melkor asked, watching Mairon grimace as he rolled his shoulder.

       “I’m fine,” he said. 

       “Mairon,” said Aulë, “I’ve had enough of this nonsense.  Get your things, and let’s go.  Come home right now, and we’ll forget this ever happened—no consequences.”

       “I’m not going anywhere,” said Mairon.  “I like it here, Dad.  I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do.”

       “Always wanted,” Aulë scoffed.  “Since when?”

       “Since I was eight years old,” Mairon said.  “Which you’d know if you’d ever taken five minutes to listen to me.”

       “Mairon, this is not a career.  This is an act of rebellion—one you’re too old for.  I thought we were done with this after the piercing incident.”

       “Dad, I’m not rebelling,” Mairon said.  He sounded exhausted, and Melkor had the feeling he wasn’t hearing the first iteration of this particular argument.  “I’m just living my life.  I’m sorry it’s not the one you wanted for me.”

       “What I want for you is success,” Aulë said. 

       “Sure,” said Mairon.  “If you define success as a McMansion in the suburbs, which I don’t.  I don’t want a house in a gated community, with snotty neighbors and their stupid country clubs.  I want to sing.  I want to be famous.  Don’t you see, Dad?  This is my chance.”

       “Oh, it’s your chance, alright,” Aulë growled.  “You last chance.  Come home, Mairon.  Go back to school.  Get your life back on track while you still can.  We can forget all about this.”

       “No,” said Mairon. 

       Aulë face went from livid to disappointed to something between dismissive and detached.  He drew himself up, straightening his tie.  “Then consider yourself cut off,” he said.  “If you want to live this way, you aren’t doing it on my dime.”

       “Fine by me,” said Mairon.

       “Car keys,” Aulë said, holding out his hand.  Mairon pulled them from his pocket and tossed them into Aulë’s outstretched palm.  “I’m calling your landlord to cancel your lease and the bursar to cancel your tuition.  Tomorrow, I’ll call and cancel your credit cards.”  He paused, letting it sink in.  “Last chance, Mairon.”

       “I’m good,” Mairon said.

       “Then we’re finished,” Aulë said.  He turned and started down the hall, stopping after only a few feet and turning back.  “Don’t call,” he said.  “Don’t come home.  Don’t speak to me unless it’s to apologize.”

       “Don’t hold your breath,” Mairon said.  Aulë ignored him, turning on his heel and walking out.

       The door closed behind him, and Mairon sighed.  “Asshole,” he said.  He raised his hand and flipped off the door through which Aulë had gone.  Then he winced, rubbing his shoulder.

       “You sure you’re okay?”

       “Fine,” Mairon said. 

       “Gimme a full range of motion.”

       “I’m not—“

       Melkor put one hand on Mairon’s elbow and the other on his wrist, slowly rotating Mairon’s arm in a windmill motion.  Mairon winced, but everything seemed to be in working order.  He caught Melkor’s eye, an odd look that made Melkor release him rather abruptly. 

       “So,” Mairon said, rubbing his arm sheepishly.  “That’s my dad.  Sorry he’s such an asshole.”

       “It’s cool,” Melkor said.  “Reminds me of my dad, actually.”

       “Yeah?” Mairon looked relieved.

       Melkor grinned.  “Yeah,” he said.  He affected a high, sing-songy voice.  “You and this rock music garbage,” he said.  “You’re a disgrace.  You’ll probably die in a gutter.  Blah, blah, fuck you, blah, blah.”

       Mairon laughed.  “Yours isn’t into music either, huh?”

       “He’s more a classical kind of guy,” Melkor said.  “He runs the Arda Philharmonic.”

       “No shit,” said Mairon.  “Iluvatar?  He’s the most famous conductor in the world.”

       “And a grade-A asshole,” Melkor said. 

       “I can sympathize with that,” Mairon said. 

       “Can I ask you a question?”

       “Go for it.”

       “Two questions, actually.”

       “Nah,” said Mairon.  “Just the one.”  Melkor laughed.  “Seriously, though.  Go for it.”

        “What’s the piercing incident?” Melkor asked him. 

       Mairon rolled his eyes.  “That would be the time I came home with my ears pierced, and my dad told me future leaders don’t have earrings.  It turned into a whole thing and ended with my dad ripping one of the studs out of my earlobe.”

       “Christ,” Melkor said, raising an eyebrow. 

       “See?” Mairon said, turning his head.  He ran his finger over a little defect in his earlobe, like a healed gash that had left an indentation in the skin. 

       “Fucker,” Melkor said.

       “I came home the next day with two new holes in each ear,” Mairon said proudly, fingering the studs in his ears.  “And then spent the next month couch surfing before the school got concerned enough and he let me come home.”

       “Speaking of school,” Melkor said. 

       “Ugh.”

       “Did he say ‘go back to school’?”

       “Yeah,” Mairon said.  “I might have dropped out of a prestigious grad program to take this gig.”

       “What kind of program?”

       “Engineering PhD over at Aman U.”

       “Jesus,” Melkor said.  “That’s some serious snooty rich kids’ school.”

       “Yeah,” said Mairon.  “It is.  Believe it or not, they didn’t like me much.”

       Melkor laughed.  “Their loss,” he said. 

       They were silent for a moment, and then Mairon said, “So I guess I’m homeless now.”

       “No, you aren’t,” Melkor said.  “We have a perfectly good couch.”

       “For real?”

       “Dude, you just chose Angband over career stability and, I’m guessing, a buttload of inheritance money.  The least we can do is put you up.”

       “Thanks,” Mairon said, grinning at him.  “I owe you one.”

       “I’ll hold you to that,” Melkor said, returning the grin.  “Come on.  Let’s get ready to work.”  He threw his arm around Mairon’s shoulders and pulled him into the studio.

*****

       Gothmog had called Mairon their lucky charm, and it seemed to be true.  They played a couple shows a week, with crowds that grew with each passing week and often spilled into the aisles and out through doors onto the sidewalks.  The local press was beginning to take notice of them, giving them the front page of the entertainment section about three weeks after the Aulë incident.  Their days off were spent rehearsing in the studio, working on the new songs Melkor had written.  They were shaping up, coming together the more they rehearsed. 

       They worked a few of the more polished ones into the set list, performing to enthusiastic crowds that cheered and called for more.  For once, the reviews were as glowing as the fans.  “Check it out,” Gothmog said, throwing a newspaper onto the coffee table one afternoon at the house.  “They called your songwriting electric.”

       “Nice,” Melkor said, picking up the paper.  “Hey, Mai.  Look at this.”  He tossed him the paper.  “They called your singing inspired.”

       “That’s vague,” Mairon said. 

       “Most praise is,” said Thuringwethil.

       “Don’t complain about good reviews,” Melkor said.  “They get us noticed.”

       Late that night, lying in bed, Melkor thought about what the reviewer had said.  She had called Mairon’s singing inspired, and for once, Melkor could whole-heartedly agree.  His songs were good—very good, even—but Mairon’s singing brought something otherworldly and entirely new to them, transforming them from mere songs to something closer to art. 

       What Mairon had, Melkor had decided, was stage presence.  It was an elusive, intangible quality, indefinable and impossible to imitate, that made audiences stand up and take notice.  When Mairon was onstage, he commanded the room.  From the moment he walked out, even before he began to sing, he captivated an audience, guiding them artfully into deeper communion with the experience.  He spoke to them personally, conspiratorially, drawing them in and making them feel a part of the show.  And his singing…

       Melkor often found himself staring in awe at his singer while he played.  Sometimes Mairon stood still, a god-like figure cut from stone holding a microphone and calling to his people.  Other times, he danced around the stage, the flick of his hair as mesmerizing as the swinging of his hips.  He often sang during Melkor’s solos, imitating the whine and slide of the strings in a masterful call and response.  He stood close to Melkor when he did, crowding into his space, his face joyful in a way that made Melkor’s palms sweat and his fingers fumble over the strings.  Then he would be gone, dancing away to Thuringwethil, or to the front of the stage, touching his hands to the outstretched arms of the crowd, leaving Melkor mystified and, though he’d never admit it, very glad of the way his guitar slung low around his waist. 

       If it was hard being so close to Mairon onstage, it was even harder having him in the house.  Mairon had, almost from the beginning, blended seamlessly into the fabric of the group, forming fast and strangely deep friendships with each of them in turn.  He went running every morning with Thuringwethil, the two of them rising before the others to race each other around the city.  He cooked with Gothmog, learning secrets Gothmog would tell no one else.  He would sit for hours with Melkor, on the couch and on his bed, poring over lyrics and music, making notes and suggestions.  Whatever Melkor was doing, Mairon was always there.  Melkor liked having Mairon around—they had a similar sense of humor, the shared experience of having left incredibly privileged lives, and a knack for throwing oddly-specific, often highbrow, obscure references into casual conversation—but it also made him feel ( _excited_ , his traitorous brain supplied, or _aroused_ )—things he tried, with varying levels of success, to ignore.  As the months passed, he eventually gave up trying to deny to himself how much he liked Mairon and instead focused his attention on making sure it stayed hidden.  Dating your bandmates, he knew, was a surefire recipe for disaster.

       Six months passed, though it felt simultaneously like much more and far fewer.  They toured constantly, to larger venues in farther-flung cities.  They played every show they could get, and their reputation grew.  They were getting airtime on minor, local radio stations and doing interviews with small city news shows.  Most importantly, and perhaps most unbelievably, they continued to improve, their sets continually more expansive, more polished. 

       They played six shows a week for three weeks and returned home, exhausted, for a four-day stretch of rest.  The afternoon of the third day found Melkor sprawled on his bed, laying cross-ways with his legs leaning up the length of the wall.  He had his guitar in his lap, idly picking out the melody of a half-finished song that had been eluding him for months. 

       “Hey,” said Mairon, pushing open the door.  “Can I come in?”

       “Sure,” said Melkor, watching him walk across the room and sit on the bed beside him, his torso next to Melkor’s legs. 

       “I have a proposition for you,” said Mairon.  He held out a piece of paper, and Melkor took it, shifting his guitar to lean against his chest. 

       “’Battle of the Bands’,” Melkor read, handing the paper back.  “Sounds lame.”

       “Normally, I’d agree,” said Mairon.  “But this one pays cash—a lot of cash.  And,” he turned the paper around so Melkor could see it, “the winner gets a record deal.”  He pointed at the relevant line on the page. 

       “No way,” Melkor said, swinging his legs around and sitting up.  “With who?”

       “Arda Marred,” said Mairon.

       “Shut the fuck up,” said Melkor, snatching the paper away from him. 

       Mairon laughed.  “It’s in three weeks,” he said.  “If we book it tomorrow, we can just make the deadline for signups.”

       “Three weeks,” Melkor said.  “That’s pushing it.”

       “We can do it,” Mairon said, and Melkor grinned at the familiar confidence in his voice. 

       “I mean, we have been playing nonstop for six months,” Melkor said.  “That’s pretty good practice.”

       “Especially for this kind of competition,” Mairon said. 

       “How much is the registration?”

       “Five hundred,” Mairon said.

       “Ouch,” said Melkor.  While it was true they were doing well, the regional music scene didn’t exactly pay well, and five hundred dollars was a lot of money to come up with overnight. 

       “Yeah,” Mairon said, “but—point of interest—our friendly neighborhood rivals have already entered.”

       “Sons of Fëanor,” Melkor growled, the paper crumpling as his grip tightened. 

       The Sons of Fëanor were Angband’s only real rival in the area, often playing venues in cities Angband had already booked in order to split the crowds.  It was petty and vindictive, and Melkor claimed it was because they held a ridiculous grudge resulting from some perceived slight years before.  Whatever the reason, Melkor hated them.  They were a band of seven brothers, and Melkor liked to refer to them as the Partridge Family.

       “We’re entering,” Melkor said, tossing the paper on the bed between them.  “I don’t care if we have to steal the money from a goddamn orphanage.  Those assholes aren’t getting a record deal before we do.”

       Mairon laughed and patted his shoulder.  “Easy there, edgelord,” he said.  “I called in a few favors, and I have someone who’ll front us the money.”

       “Who?”

       “An old friend,” Mairon said, and Melkor ground his teeth.  Mairon always seemed to have an old friend, a neighbor, a connection somewhere, and he never wanted to say how or why he knew them.  Still, Melkor could deal with a little secrecy if it got them a spot in the lineup. 

       “Make it happen,” he said, and tried not to stare at Mairon’s ass as he walked away.

       They canceled their upcoming shows and spent at least eight hours a day in the studio for the next three weeks.  Much of their time was, obviously enough, spent rehearsing, although a good chunk was devoted to arguing fruitlessly over the setlist.  They had a fifteen-minute slot and a four-song limit.  They had all agreed on _Kill the Trees_ and _Lammoth_ being in the lineup, but couldn’t agree on the final two slots.

       Four days before the show, they still hadn’t reached a consensus.  “It has to be _Crown of Three_ ,” Melkor argued, repeating the phrase like a mantra. 

       “ _Fall of Gondolin_ ,” Gothmog countered, once again. 

       “You’re both wrong,” Thuringwethil said.  “It’s _Tol-in-Gaurhoth_ or nothing.”

       “This isn’t productive,” Mairon said.  “And we’re running out of time.”

       “If you suggest _Carcharoth_ again,” Gothmog said, “I swear to God—“

       “We’ll pick from a hat,” Mairon said, sliding the beanie off his head and tearing a sheet of notebook paper into quarters.  He wrote each song on a slip of paper and Melkor watched him, wondering not for the first time how Mairon could so stubbornly avoid the scourge of hat hair. 

       Mairon folded each piece and slipped it into his hat.  “Who wants to pick?”

       They looked around at each other, indecisive.

       “You do it,” Thuringwethil said. 

       “You sure?” Mairon asked. 

       “Works for me,” said Gothmog.

       He looked at Melkor, who shrugged, and said, “Go for it.”

       Mairon reached into the hat and pulled out a slip of paper, unfolding it carefully.  “ _Crown of Three_ it is,” he said.  Gothmog and Thuringwethil groaned, and Melkor punched the air triumphantly. 

       “Suck it, dickheads,” he said, cackling gleefully.

       “You wish,” Mairon said, and Melkor choked, coughing so forcefully he could barely breathe.

       “Nice going, dipshit,” said Gothmog, laughing at him.  Thuringwethil fixed Melkor with a look that seemed to know too much.  He pointedly avoided her gaze.

       “Alright,” Thuringwethil said.  “So we have _Kill the Trees_ , _Lammoth_ , and _Crown of Three_.”

       “In that order,” Gothmog said. 

       “Obviously,” she shot back.  “So what’s our last slot?”

       “ _Ancalagon_ ,” said Mairon, as surely as though it were already settled. 

       Gothmog laughed, and Thuringwethil gave him a curious look.

       “Seriously, though,” said Melkor, recovering.

       “I am serious,” said Mairon.

       “It’s not finished,” Melkor.  “And anyway, we haven’t practiced it.”

       “It has to be _Ancalagon_.”

       “Are you even listening to me?”

       “Do you trust me?” Mairon asked.

       “I—what?”

       “Do you trust me?” Mairon repeated.  He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and he looked up at Melkor, his green eyes bright and intense. 

       “You know I do,” Melkor said, holding his gaze. 

       “Then trust me on this.”

       Melkor looked at him for a moment, wavering.  Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.  “Alright,” he said.  “But you better be right about this.”

       “Trust me,” Mairon said, grinning, and Melkor did.

       Gothmog and Thuringwethil went home, but Melkor and Mairon stayed through the night, parsing every word of every lyric until they were hoarse and tired and irritable.  Then they parsed some more, writing and rewriting again and again.  The sun set, and the sun came up; at long last, Mairon held up a sheet of paper, looking over the final version of the lyrics.  “This is it,” he said, and he yawned. 

       “It has to be,” Melkor said, stifling his own yawn.  “But we still have a buttload of work to do on the backing.”

       “I know,” Mairon said, yawning again.  “Which I will gladly help you with, but first, I have to take a nap, or I’m gonna pass out.”

       “Same,” Melkor said.  He slouched against the wall, stretching his legs out across the floor.

       “An hour,” Mairon said, scooting away from him.  He lay back, resting his head in Melkor’s lap and closing his eyes.  “Two at the most.”

       “Mmm,” Melkor said, not trusting himself with actual words. 

       “Set an alarm,” Mairon said, his words soft and slurred.

       Melkor did, reluctantly, knowing they had work to do.  He looked down at Mairon, who was already asleep.  Melkor laid a hand gently on the red-gold hair spilled in his lap, curling his fingers into it. He drifted into a contended doze, waking far more rested than he had any right to be.

       They finished the music two days before the show. 

       “We’re not ready,” Thuringwethil said, repeating the sentence like a mantra. 

       “We have to be,” Melkor would snap back.

       “We will be,” Mairon would say, soothing them both.

       Melkor trusted Mairon, and yet he worried, all the way through the next two days, right up until soundcheck.  It was the least practiced they had ever been for a show, and this was the most important show of their lives.  It could mean the difference between success and failure, between the life they had and the life they wanted. 

       By the time soundcheck rolled around, however, Melkor had exhausted his capacity for worry.  Mairon, on the other hand, seemed to have picked up the anxiety Melkor had lost.  He paced through the first three acts until Thuringwethil took him by the shoulders and sat him forcibly in a chair.  Then he tapped his foot until Thuringwethil gritted her teeth and walked away, out of range of the sound. 

       There were seven acts, and Angband was dead last.  The Sons of Fëanor were sixth, and by the time their turn rolled around, Mairon was back to pacing.  On the third song of their set, Melkor followed him on his persistent path.  He stopped him at the far end of his range, just as Mairon turned back to complete the arc.  “Will you relax?” he said, standing in his path. 

       “I can’t,” he said.  “We’re not ready.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  We should’ve practiced more.  We should’ve gone with another song.  We should’ve—“

       “Hey,” Melkor said, taking him by the shoulders and holding him still.  “You asked me before if I trusted you.”

       “Yeah.”

       “I do,” Melkor said.  “And you should too.”

       Mairon stared up at him for a moment, taken aback.  Then he nodded, and Melkor smiled.  “You nervous?” he asked, and Mairon shook his head. 

       “No,” he said, smiling in return. 

       “Good,” Melkor said.  “They’re gonna love you.”

       The Sons of Fëanor finished their set to raucous applause.  “Alright, guys,” said Melkor, gathering the three of them into a tight huddle.  “This is it.  Do or die.  And if we’re gonna die, then let’s give ‘em hell on our way out.”

       “That was a terrible motivational speech,” Thuringwethil said, slinging her bass over her shoulder.

       “Best I’ve got, you ass,” said Melkor, doing the same with his guitar. 

       “No time for anything better,” Gothmog said.  “Come on, guys.  It’s time.”

       They walked out onto the stage to enthusiastic cheers.  It was clear they had fans in the audience, and it bolstered them despite their nerves.  They took their places, and the room got quiet.  The lights were bright, the expectant hush too loud.  Mairon stood at the microphone, looking out at the crowd.  He looked over his shoulder, only for a second, and caught Melkor’s eye.  He winked, a tiny quirk of a smile fleeting on his lips.  Then Gothmog clicked his sticks together, and Mairon turned back.  It was time.

       They played easily through the familiar throes of the first three songs, their sound electrified and raw.  Melkor’s fingers flew over the strings, but his eyes were on Mairon, watching how effortlessly, how gracefully he moved.  It was a beautiful sight, thrilling and intoxicating, and he drank it in, desperate to remember every movement. 

       They finished _Crown of Three_ , and the lights came down, everything dimming until only a single spotlight remained, focused on Mairon.  He stood still, his head bowed, waiting.  Melkor took a deep breath and started the opening riff.  Mairon gripped the mic with one hand and held the stand with the other.  His head came up, eyes roving over the unseen crowd, and he began at last to sing, quiet at first, growing stronger as the guitar swelled and the bass and drums came in.  The music picked up, the pace quickened.  Mairon strutted across the stage, commanding attention, reveling in it. 

       He sang three verses, his voice swelling to a crescendo and then fading suddenly to nothing as the bass and drums settled into an easy, steady rhythm.  It was time for Melkor’s solo. 

       Melkor had not been nervous all night, but now, he found his fingers shaking on the frets.  He played the first few notes quietly, as though unsure.  Then Mairon was there, shimmying up to him, microphone in hand.  He was grinning, as cocky and sure as he had been the first day they had met, and Melkor felt a rush of confidence.  He let his feet slide apart, adopting a wide stance, and played as he never had before.  Mairon was tantalizingly close, yet far enough away, his movements mimicking Melkor’s as his voice mimicked the sound of the guitar.  The notes of the guitar meandered slowly upward to a shrieking, haunting crescendo, and Mairon let his voice follow, improvising as he went until at last the bass and the drums came back into play, and he danced away, back to the front of the stage. 

       The rest was easy, passing by in a whirl until the last chord, the echo of strings and voice and drums rolling out across a theater that was preternaturally quiet.  Then the crowd erupted into a cacophony of sound, the people rolling as one to their feet.  Gothmog gave a shout and tossed his drumsticks off the stage, surging to his feet.  Melkor charged at Mairon, lifting him off his feet and into the air.  Mairon pumped his fist gleefully, savoring the roar of the crowd as it continued. 

       The next hour passed in a blur.  There was the announcement off the winner (Angband, of course, with the Sons of Fëanor taking a very unhappy second place), and the presentation of the prizes.  There were interviews and papers to sign, appointments made for further review and planning.  The band members took in very little, high as they were on adrenaline and victory.  They took in even less of the next three hours, surrounded by fans and drinking for free.  It was three in the morning before any of them straggled back to their hotel, one by one, exhausted and happy and free.

       Mairon went to the room he shared with Thuringwethil, sliding the key into the slot and turning the handle.  Thuringwethil was there, holding the edge of the door as he tried to open it, blocking his way. 

       “Uh,” he said.  “Thil?”

       “Yeah,” she said.  “Sorry.  You’re gonna have to find somewhere else.”

       “This is my room,” he said, too tired to catch on at once.

       “Yes,” she said pointedly, “and I’m using it.”

       “But—oh.”

       “Sorry, buddy,” she said, and shut the door in his face.  He heard the lock click, and he sighed.  Then he turned and walked across the hall, knocking on the door opposite his.  For a moment, he worried no one was there; then the lock drew back, and the door swung inward, and Melkor leaned on the doorframe, a little unsteady.

       “Mairon,” he said.  “What’s up?”

       “Can I borrow your floor?” he asked.  “Thil kicked me out.”

       “You’re in luck,” Melkor said, standing back to let him through.  “Gothmog bailed.”

       “Oh, yeah?” Mairon said as Melkor shut and locked the door.

       “Some rich chick,” Melkor said, rolling his eyes.  “There’s always a couple, looking to slum it, and he’s always happy to provide.”

       “I bet he is,” Mairon said, laughing.  “Good for him.”  He walked to the center of the room.  “Smoke?” he said, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

       “Uh, smoke alarm?” said Melkor, pointing to the ceiling. 

       “Uh,” said Mairon, imitating him.  “Window?”

       “They lock those,” Melkor said.  “So dumbasses like our friend Gothmog can’t jump out of them when they’re drunk.”

       “Fortunately,” said Mairon, “I have a workaround.”

       “You always do,” said Melkor.  He followed Mairon to the window and watched as he jimmied the seal with his pocket knife.  

       “Ta da,” Mairon said, pushing it open.  He pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack and put it between his lips before offering the pack to Melkor.  Melkor lit it for him before lighting his own, leaning down and breathing in the heady, familiar scent of him.  They stood at the open window, breathing smoke out into the thin darkness before dawn.

       “Hell of a show,” Mairon said, taking a drag from the half-cigarette between his fingers.

       “All thanks to you.”

       “Oh, yeah,” Mairon said, rolling his eyes.  “I’m a one-man act.”

       “No,” Melkor said.  “But we wouldn’t have been there without you.  We wouldn’t be here without you.”

       “Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging.  “I do what I can.”

       “You’re a godsend,” Melkor said.  “Honestly, Mai, I don’t know how we got so lucky.”

       “I find it best not to question those kinds of things,” Mairon said, with exaggerated gravity.  Melkor laughed.  Mairon took a final long drag and tossed the butt out the window.  Melkor did the same, and Mairon pulled the window shut, running his hand over the seal.

       “So,” said Mairon, turning to face him.

       “So,” said Melkor.  They stood for a moment, face to face, Mairon looking up at him with an odd smile on his lips.

       “You gonna kiss me or what?” Mairon asked. 

       And Melkor did, one hand one Mairon’s hip, the other cupping his cheek.  Mairon slid his hand through Melkor’s hair, pressing against the back of his head, pulling him down.  He shifted forward, straddling Melkor’s leg the way he sometimes did in shows (the way that had always driven Melkor crazy), but this time he was closer, pressed against Melkor’s chest, pulling him down to kiss him harder, eager and hungry.  Melkor pulled him closer, his hands running over the curve of Mairon’s ass, relishing the feel of something he’d wanted to do since the first time he’d stood behind Mairon, watching him sing, watching the sway of his hips in jeans that left nothing to the imagination.  Mairon shifted forward, the roll of his hips a sweet friction against Melkor’s own, and Melkor growled, a low guttural sound of need.

       He pulled away, sliding his hands up to the hem of Mairon’s shirt and tugging it up over his head, staring transfixed at the translucent, freckled skin.  He ran his hands wonderingly over tattoos he had often seen but never touched, though he had desperately wanted to.  Mairon kissed him again, pulling him down hard, and Melkor slid his hands over every inch of skin he could reach.  He picked Mairon up, his hands on Marion’s ass, and Mairon wrapped his legs around Melkor’s waist.  Melkor carried him to the bed, laying him down and pulling off his own shirt. 

       Melkor draped himself over Mairon’s chest, and Mairon slid his thigh between Melkor’s legs.  Melkor kissed him, running his hand down the muscled expanse of Mairon’s chest.  “God,” he whispered, trailing biting, pleasantly stinging kisses down Mairon’s neck.  “Do you know how long I wanted this?”

       “Probably about as long as I have,” Mairon said, arching his back and pressing himself into the touch of Melkor’s lips.

       Melkor pulled back, looking at him intently.  “Really?” he asked.

       “Jesus,” Mairon said, laughing in disbelief.  “How many times do I have to grind on you in a show before you get the hint?”

       Melkor was a smart man, though not always particularly perceptive, and he gaped at Mairon.  “Really?” he asked again.  “I dunno, I thought you just—“

       Mairon took Melkor’s hand and pressed it to the bulge in his pants, rolling his hips up into the press of Melkor’s palm.  “Does that clear things up?”

       Melkor slid his hand up, dipped his fingers below the waistband of Mairon’s pants, but his hand was too big (or, more realistically, Mairon’s pants were too tight) to go any further.  “Jesus,” he said, fumbling with the button, “why do you have to wear jeans that are practically painted on?”

       “Hoping you’d check out my ass,” Mairon said, grinning. 

       “Mission accomplished,” Melkor said, still struggling.  “Every fuckin’ day.”

       Mairon slid up on the bed, undoing the button and zipper on his pants and tugging them down over his hips.  “Thank God,” he said, tossing his jeans over the side of the bed and onto the floor.  “I was starting to wonder how much more obvious I could possibly be.”

       “I wouldn’t say it was obvious,” Melkor said, longing to pull down Mairon’s boxers as well.

       “Are you kidding me?  Dude, people were starting to comment on how close my ass was to you on stage.  I walked around the house as naked as common decency and basic roommate etiquette would let me.  God, how many times could I possibly need to borrow something from you, half-naked, on my way to the shower?”

       Melkor laughed.  “I thought it was just wishful thinking on my part,” he said, still staring at Mairon, laid almost bare beneath him.

       “Oh, it was,” Mairon said.  He took Melkor’s hand and slid it gently down the waistband of his boxers, a soft moan escaping his lips at the pass of Melkor’s hand over his length.

       If any doubt remained to Melkor, it was destroyed by the press of Mairon’s erection into his hand.  He pulled his hand free and tugged at his own pants, shaking fingers nearly defeated by a common button and zipper closure.  Mairon laughed and did it for him, kissing a trail from navel to thigh as he slid the fabric down.  Melkor pulled his jeans the rest of the way off and threw them aside.  Mairon pulled him down, and Melkor was lost in the feel of him, in the sudden reality of everything he’d imagined for the last half a year.

       The taste of his lips, the slide of skin on skin, the whimpers and moans pulled from him by the roll of Melkor’s hips, and finally, _finally_ , the sharp, sudden crescendo of a scream as he came, spilling himself into Melkor’s hand as Melkor spilled inside him. 

       They lay together, after, Mairon curled against Melkor’s chest, Melkor’s arm around him.  “Is it a bad idea,” Melkor asked, running his fingers through Mairon’s hair, “to get involved with your lead singer?”

       “Dunno,” Mairon said, his fingers trailing circles on the warm skin of Melkor’s chest.  “Is it a bad idea to get involved with your lead guitarist?”

       “The real question,” Melkor said, “is: since when have either of us been concerned about bad ideas?”

       Mairon laughed, and Melkor kissed him, again and again.

*****

       Gothmog trudged back to his room a few minutes before noon, still half-asleep as he slid his keycard into the slot and pushed open the door.  He stepped inside and set down his bag, looking up halfway to the bathroom to see if Melkor was still asleep.  He was, in fact, with his arms wrapped around Mairon, who was half-awake, his head on Melkor’s chest.  Mairon gave a lazy wave in Gothmog’s direction, and Gothmog turned on his heel and fled, fumbling the door shut behind him. 

       He went across the hall, knocking urgently on Thuringwethil’s door.  She opened it, wrapping her bathrobe around herself and leaning in the doorway.  “What’s up?”

       “Hnnng,” was all Gothmog said at first, pointing over his shoulder at his room.  “Melkor—he—Mairon—”

       “About damn time,” Thuringwethil said.  Gothmog gaped at her.  “Come on,” she said, grinning and pulling him inside.  “Help me get this dude out my bed, and we can talk about.”

       Across the hall, Mairon stretched, shifting against Melkor, who stirred and began to wake.

       “What time is it?” Melkor murmured, eyes still closed.

       “No idea,” Mairon said.  “Time for Gothmog to come home, apparently.”

       Melkor snorted.  “Guess he got an eyeful.”

       “Maybe he should text first.”

       “To be fair,” Melkor said, opening his eyes, “I don’t typically let my conquests stay the night.  And my conquests aren’t typically my band-and-housemates.”

       “No Thuringwethil?”

       Melkor laughed.  “She’d scratch your eyes out for even suggesting it.”  Mairon laughed, splaying his hand distractingly against Melkor’s skin.  “So,” Melkor said, sliding his fingers into Mairon’s.

       “So,” Mairon said, shifting his head to look up at him.

       “Is this the part where we have to talk about whatever this is?”

       “We don’t have to.”  Melkor looked at him, surprised, and Mairon shrugged.  “Look, I like you,” Mairon said.  “If you wanna do this, whatever this is, then I’m down.  But if you don’t—“He shrugged again.  “Well, we’re adults, right?”

       “Allegedly,” Melkor said, and Mairon laughed.

       “You decide,” Mairon said, kissing him gently, “and let me know.”

       A week passed and, like adults, Melkor and Mairon said absolutely nothing about what had happened.  It drove Gothmog up the wall, and he complained loudly and often to Thuringwethil whenever the two of them were out of range. 

       “What are they doing?” he demanded, standing on the stoop and looking through the window at the two of them, absorbed in continuing what had become a months-long fight for _Mario Kart_ domination.

       “I stopped asking that question a long time ago,” Thuringwethil said, fishing a lighter out of Gothmog’s pocket.

       “But—”

       “Let it go,” she said, patting him gently on the arm.

*****

       They signed a record deal, and the four of them were thus required to attend a swanky party, complete with record label executives in expensive suits that stood at odds with the determinedly grungy outfits of the band.  Still, the food was good, and the drinks were free; all in all, they were having a good time.

       An hour of mingling was about all Melkor could take.  He stepped outside onto the porch, lighting a cigarette and looking out at the city.  It been a long run, tiresome and difficult, to get to this point.  He looked out over the streets and the building, each a little bastion of struggle and disappointment and triumph, hard-won.  To be here now was still almost impossible to believe, with everything they had ever wanted now within their reach.  Well, he thought, almost everything.

       He turned back and looked through the big glass panes in the door, scanning the room for his friends.  Gothmog was at the bar, probably haranguing the unfortunate bartender over the lack of a specific, hard-to-come-by liquor.  Thuringwethil was standing with a woman Melkor recognized as the wardrobe coordinator for the label, poring over something on her phone.  And Mairon…

       Melkor looked around, unable to find him at first.  He scanned the room twice, frowning, wondering if Mairon had left, or—no, there.  A familiar spill of red-gold hair, bright against the black of his shirt.  He was leaning against the wall, his hands tucked behind his back.  A man Melkor didn’t recognize was standing over him, his arm pressed against the wall next to Mairon’s head, and he leaned down, his face close to Mairon’s.  He turned his head, whispering in Mairon’s ear, and Mairon laughed.

       The sight filled Melkor with an unfounded, slightly irrational irritation.  “Oh, hell no,” he muttered, grinding the butt of his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot.  He threw the door open and strode inside, picking his way through the crowd to the opposite side of the room.  He reached Mairon and grabbed the stranger by the back of the shirt, pulling him backwards.  “Get out,” he growled, his face fierce enough that the man did, stumbling back and away from them.  Melkor watched him go for a moment before turning back to Mairon, looking down at him. 

       “Hey,” said Mairon, looking entirely unruffled, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.  He still leaned back against the wall, his face turned up to look at Melkor, a mischievous smile on his lips.  “What’s up?” 

       “Remember how you asked me to decide?” Melkor asked.  Mairon nodded.  “Well, I decided,” Melkor said.  He put one hand on the small of Mairon’s back, pulling him away from the wall.  He slid his other hand through Mairon’s hair, cupping the back of his head.  Then he leaned down and kissed him, smiling against Mairon’s lips as Mairon wound his arms around Melkor’s neck and pulled him down closer, kissing him back.  He ignored the whispers and the whistles and the stares, not caring who could see or what they thought.  The he took Mairon by the hand and pulled him away, out through the doors and into the night, both of them laughing.  _Now_ , Melkor thought, with Mairon’s hand in his and the sound of his laughter in Melkor’s ears, _now I have everything_.   

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/) and yell about angbang.


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